Georgia’s favorite part about love was the freedom it gave her to be sentimental. That says it all, doesn’t it? She dredged old memories, mining them for romance. Georgia even asked a farmer to bring ugly trees to market. Every Christmas, she rushed to his stall where he twirled each pathetic specimen for her serious consideration.

So, there it stood, a fussed over weakling, the symbol of another tree found on an adventure trespassing between cow patties. Always a bald, scrawny thing, the tree never helped me recapture romance. What did an eyesore have to do with my sweet love?